


the dark inventions of your burning sorrow

by lanyon



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Pretentious Author is Pretentious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Yet, when it comes down to it, you are not prepared for Death, with a capital letter and a rictus grin.</i>
</p>
<p>(First posted on LiveJournal on 26/08/2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dark inventions of your burning sorrow

(When you die for the first time, it affects you deeply. You feel the visceral pain of tearing-skin-splintered-ribs and water filling up your mouth and lungs in the instant before you blink awake. You gasp for breath, clutching at your breast, _o I am slain_ (you did not see it coming, that first time).

After that, you die often. You become blazé about death. You have been shot, you have been stabbed, you have fallen from great heights, you have died stupidly and you have died bravely.

You have lain there and welcomed every little death, knowing that it brings a new awakening. Yet, when it comes down to it, you are not prepared for Death, with a capital letter and a rictus grin.)

 

-  
a  
r  
e

slumped against the wall, half-sitting, half-lying. It’s an ugly wall in a beautiful building. Some old, soon-to-be-renovated palazzo with yellow plaster flaking from the walls and ceilings. You are slumped against Eames, too, who is breathing too fast but manages to wheeze, with great indignation, _who brings an Uzi to Venice?_

You try to smile, though it’s difficult. Your jaw might be broken. You prod experimentally at the swelling around your mouth with too-heavy fingers and wince. You want to ask, _who brings a paisley suit to Venice?_ The moment has passed. The lights of passing boats rove across the windows, blue and garish, throwing the broken panes of glass into sharp relief.

You had been having such a nice day, too. You were to lie low here, although telling Eames to lie low was to incite a riot. He behaved for a while, you will allow that much. For a man so well-traveled as he, you were surprised at how enthusiastic he was. He peered in shop windows and bought a mask; it was cream and decorated with golden clefs and staves and musical notes. He brandished it like a sword, laughing. It was strange, you thought, that he would be so enamoured by such a thing. He spends so much of his time posing as other people that you sometimes think his own face must be a novelty to him. Perhaps he is too enamoured by the art of disguise.

He strode through St Mark’s Square eating an ice-cream and clashing with the scenery. There were guided tours of the Doge’s palace and you could not hold him back. You only went with him to make sure he didn’t break anything (or, worse, steal anything). You could not stop him from proclaiming delightedly, _I’ll take it!_ as he walked into each high-ceilinged room. Oh, such endearing chaos had likely not been seen since Casanova. You thought of telling the security guards to frisk him on the way out. Eames would probably have enjoyed it, though.

You had to clamp your hand over his mouth because he wanted to shout when you crossed the Bridge of Sighs. _Have you no respect?_ you hissed at him and he laughed. _But they were all convicts_ , he said. _They’re long gone. Wastrels like me._

Now, you wonder if the same could be said of you, too.

_I feel like Bonnie and Clyde_ , you say, your voice sounding muffled to your own ears. You wish you had a totem. Mal is a genius and you thought you had all the time in the world to craft something beautiful and yours.

Eames’ shoulders lift briefly. He might be laughing, even now. _Both of them, darling?_ He coughs, a wracking cough that makes his whole body shudder. He tries to smother a moan and you do not want to think about how many shards of rib are puncturing his lungs. _I thought of us more as Thelma and Louise._

Again, you try to smile. _And which one are you? Susan Sarandon or Geena Davis?_

There is a moment’s silence. You think maybe he has fallen asleep (unconscious) and you want to shake him, shout at him for being so selfish as to go on the next adventure-or-awakening-or-eternal sleep without you.

_Whichever one gets to bone Brad Pitt._

_Funny, Eames. You bastard._

You both fall silent for a while. You can hear steps in the building. They’ll come for you soon. They’ll find a way through the blockade easily enough. Fine Venetian furniture can stand firm only for so long. They start pounding on the door.

_Are we dreaming?_ asks Eames. He sounds sleepy.

_I don’t think so_ , you murmur.

Eames shifts then and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

_Just because I taste blood doesn’t mean we’re not dreaming._

You think you’re dreaming. You tilt your face towards him a little more and you can feel his shaky laughter.

_We could be projections,_ you murmur. The very concept of projections scares you in a strange way. You are still not convinced that you are not killing off facets of the dreamer's personality.

_Oh, so you’re saying this will be someone else’s dream. We’ve come so fa-ar-_

You blink. It hurts, like your eyelids have been replaced by cheese-graters. _Are you singing, Eames?_

He grunts.

_What are you singing, Eames?_

_I am insulted on Gary Barlow’s behalf._

You are confused and not just because of the blood loss (you think). _Who’s Gary Barlow?_

_I hope to live to tell him you said that_ , says Eames before he breaks off into a series of wet, wheezing coughs. _Though the fact that you haven’t heard of Take That simply proves to me that you were raised in a test-tube somewhere._

He falls silent. It is strange how you always used to hope for such moments; the moments during which Eames would shut the hell up. You need to break the silence. You want to tell him that you are not well-versed in British pop music. Instead, you fixate.

_If we’re projections, we’ll probably be back._

_Arthur, old sausage, you seem rather caught up in this particular conspiracy theory. I’ll tell you this much: if we’re projections, I feel ruddy awful for every projection I have stabbed or shot or run over or thrown off buildings because it bloody well hurts -_

You feel a little desperate. You hope this is a dream. You are new to dreams and you cannot always tell. Eames, for all his many faces (damned bloody Janus of a man) and his ways in and his ways out, seems more firmly rooted in reality.

_It’s a bit of a bloody waste,_ he says, tiredly. _I’ve so much to give._

You fumble for his hand. His knuckles are all ripped up from punching a guy who was wearing Kevlar. The pounding on the door outside grows louder. You look at the window.

_Can you walk?_

_I’m not sure now is the time to take a turn around the room, darling._

_To the window. Can you walk to the window?_

Eames raises his head. It evidently takes some effort. _Are you suggesting?_

_Kick or die. It’s worth a shot._

_I prefer my shots straight. You know. In one of those dinky little glasses that say I heart NYC or the like._

_Shut up, Eames._

You help him to his feet, just as much as he helps you. You hobble over to the window, ever-so-slowly, an ugly three-legged race. You push out the shards of glass and you both lean out the window, peering down at the canal which is black, swirling ink in the twilight.

_Never again shall I accuse you of lacking imagination, darling. Or lacking a death-wish, for that matter._

_Let’s pretend it’s a kick_ , you say, in a rush. _Even if it’s not._

_I never thought I’d die in some canal in Venice._

_We might wake up_ , you say. You are dogged.

_Arthur, I never had you pegged as an optimist._

The door creaks alarmingly. They are closer to breaking in. You look down. Eames’ hand is gripping yours tightly, though you can’t really feel it.

_How did we get here?_ you murmur. _I can’t remember how we got here. It must be a dream._

_You were buying a fetching leather jacket when they started to shoot at us, darling_ , says Eames. _We ran like the clappers to get here. We’re awake._

You look down. It takes an age but you both manage to climb up onto the window ledge. There is a wayward trail of bloody footsteps leading to this point. You look down. You can’t really breathe anymore. You must be dying. You want to ask Eames what his totem is. He raises your hand to his lips. Too late for chivalry. It’s a kick. You must be dying. It’s a kick. You jump.

Y  
o  
u

-

(When you die for the last time, for real, you expect it to be different. It’s not really so different, though your skin is like tissue paper and your eyes are blurred and milky with cataracts and all that you have left of Eames is a faded photograph of him brandishing a Venetian mask like a sword and it reminds you of the first time you died in a dream.)


End file.
